Like a puppy someone abandoned on the sidewalk, I trailed my mother with an precarious armload of laptops and folders. As we walked to her office, I could see the M.O.M employees looking on at interest at the girl who had had such high hopes and such a bright future, but lost it all in the blink of the eye. Either that or they were staring at my beautiful and amazingly smart mother: Prime Minister Hermione Granger.

"Rose, honey," my mother said kindly when we approached her door. "I'll take those things. Could you go get me a coffee from downstairs? Join me when you're done."

"Sure Mom," I muttered, shoving the kitchen's sink into her waiting hands. Silently I turned and made my way to the downstairs coffee room.

This is what my job was. Fetching coffee and managing the schedule of the most powerful person in the Wizarding world. I may have been the second most powerful person in the Wizarding world, true, but I knew the real reason why my mother had appointed me second in command.

She felt sorry for how far I'd fallen. The position I had yearned for my entire life was given to my mother, defender of house-elves and sidekick to the magical, godlike Harry Potter.

I wasn't the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic: I was the definition of a failed career. I was a Mommy's little baby girl. At the age of 30.

After a long day of fetching coffee and watching my mother check up on the various M.O.M departments, as I offered a pale comment here and there, I entered my apartment.

In a thrill of excitement I caught sight of an owl waiting on the windowsill, but it soon faded as I discovered it held no letter in its talons.

"Damn it, Scorpius," I muttered. "What could be more important than writing to me?" I crossed over to the window and stared out at the twinkling lights that stretched out beneath the building. For a moment I imagined myself in America— a place that seemed more distant than the nearest star. It was dangerous for an Englishwoman to be there, sure, but at least I would be with someone who loved me.

I sighed and withdrew my wand from the belt of my skirt. Slowly I began to assemble different ingredients and put them into a saucepan. My movements were robotic, so indifferent that I hardly noticed I was cooking something before the savory smell of tomato soup rose into the air.

As the smell greeted me like an old friend, a memory hit me like a ton of bricks. It was only five years ago, in this room, when over a dinner of tomato soup my boyfriend had gotten down on his right knee and asked me to marry him. As soon as I said yes, he searched for the ring but realized he had forgotten to put it in the box. That led to nearly four hours of dismantling his bedroom in the search for it until we finally found it taped to the ceiling.

I smiled. Classic Scorpius Malfoy.

The smile soon disappeared, however, when the daily mantra took over my thoughts once again.

What is he doing in America? Why is he so busy that he can't be bothered to write me a bloody letter! Five years ago he might have loved me, but based on this past month, I wouldn't be surprised if he showed up in England one day but never slept in my bed again.

Suddenly I slammed my fist so hard on the windowsill that the wood made a tiny split. My owl shrieked in surprise and nearly fell. Instead, it glared at me through slitted yellow eyes, and savagely tore it's beak across the back of my hand. I glared back at it, gave up, and turned back into the apartment.

Momentarily I closed my eyes, feeling all of the anger and sadness inside of me drain away. I had taught myself to do that many years ago during my seventh year at Hogwarts— the year Scorpius had found my at the Astronomy Tower in the middle of the night, ready to jump to my death.

A sudden pang of fear went through my heart as I realized that he wasn't here to save me again.